Discworld Drabbles
by Moonspring
Summary: Three drabbles à 200 words based on snippets of song lyrics. Featuring Moist von Lipwig, Sam Vimes and William de Worde. Done as a writing exersise a while back.
1. Introduction and Explanation

I was sruck by a severe case of writers block a while back, and as a solution i came up with this writing exersise. I put all the music on my computer on random and decided that I would take a snippet of lyrics from the three first songs that played and write 200 word drabbles based on them. As I had just finished reading "Making Money" for the third time, my muse was stuck in Discworld, and this is what came out. It's not terribly original, not very funny or even very good, but I thought, 'what the heck', and I decided to publish them anyway. Perhaps someone out there will find them amusing, or something. I might do this with other fandoms as well, it was actually pretty fun while I was writing.

Here it goes. Enjoy!

// Moonspring


	2. Moist von Lipwig

"_Freedom is just another word_

_for 'nothing left to loose'..."_

_-Janis Joplin, Me and Bobby McGee_

The familiar sensation of being able to fly was returning to him, as it always did after a successful scam. Knowing that one was on top of the world, always balancing on the edge, there simply wasn't anything like it.

This job had given him almost 2000 Ankh Morpork dollars, but he could honestly say that he wasn't in the business of hoaxes and cons for the money. It was the art of deceiving in itself that was addictive to him.

He had enough money now to retire five times over, and he wasn't even 30 years old. He wouldn't though. He lived for this, for the planning, the execution, the thrill of knowing that only you knew the whole truth, or untruth, as it were.

But now that it was over, the excitement was quickly fading. Like a true addict, he was already craving the next fix. Time to invent his next alter ego. He felt he never was more free than when he transformed into someone who previously had never existed. And freedom was what he craved. Total, unhindered freedom.

Time to invent himself again. He liked the name Albert.

Albert Spangler. Yes, that was a good name.


	3. Sir Samuel Vimes

"_...are you lonely, all needs catered_

_you got you brains dehydrated..."_

_-The Sex Pistols, Problems_

They said it was lonely at the top. They said that the higher up you are, the harder you'll fall. He'd made the journey all the way from the bottom of the barrel to the top of the shelf, and now he had the opportunity to find out if what '_they'_ said was true.

It would help if he knew who _'they'_ were.

As far as the first statement went, he could vouch for it. It seemed as the higher up the ladder he went, the less time he had for people around him. He often found himself isolated.

'course, that could be because he often found himself buried under a bloody mountain of paperwork. His brain felt numb just thinking about it.

All basic needs, like food and comfort was taken care of. He had nothing to wish for, so he didn't wish for anything.

Well, perhaps for simpler times. Or more time, period.

And the second statement? He didn't plan on finding out. Ever.

He might sometimes wish for simpler times, but he really didn't want to go back. Again. Been there, done that, got the scars to show for it.

It was good to be on top.


	4. William de Worde

"_...the truth, at the end of time_

_losing faith makes a crime..."_

_-Nightwish, Sleeping Sun_

Sometimes it really bothered him, his inability to tell an untruth. To be able to lie his way out of a cornered spot would have saved him a lot of trouble over the years. However, from a very young age, it had been beaten into him (often literally) by the adults around him to always speak the truth, and not to 'make up stories'. The indoctrination had stuck.

Despite this, he'd made a career of telling stories. He'd more or less invented the profession himself. Journalism was all about telling the truth, but sometimes you had to bend it just a little to make it readable. A paper has to sell, after all.

Every time he had to tweak a story by carefully editing it, leaving out small details or adding his own speculations, he felt a twinge in his gut. It felt like he had committed a minor sin, as if he had cursed in a holy building or something like that. Nothing as bad as a big sin, like denying a god, because it wasn't lying per say. It was simply editing.

He wasn't a religious man, but he knew he would always have faith in the truth.


End file.
